But he’d told Mara things about himself that no one had ever heard. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t certain what she might say. Part of him wondered if she would use his history to taunt him, tell him that he was nothing but street trash pretending to be an ace pilot, that his 8th Wing uniform couldn’t hide who he really was. A hot cage encircled his chest, burning his lungs, his heart.

Her opinion of him mattered. He saw this with a quick, vicious understanding.

Instead of speaking, her hand slid out from beneath the table top and wrapped around the fist he was not even aware of making. Slowly, she worked her fingers between his, until they were woven together.

The hot cage around his chest suddenly loosened.

“This is where to come for information.” She scanned the room. Her fingers were still threaded with his, so it took him a moment to understand what she was saying. “Anything happens in Beskidt By, or on Ryge, you just come to Kusa’s. Better than the latest news uploads.”

He saw how the network operated. People continuously moved from table to table, some of them speaking with heads together, others shouting across the room. Light glinted off cred chips changing hands.

“That guy in the corner.” He discretely nodded toward the man in question. “He’s got to be out of favor. No one’s approaching him.”

Mara send a quick, covert glance to where he indicated. “Runrot. He sold out his smuggling partner a few solar months ago. Been a pariah ever since.”

“Honor among thieves.”

A dark smile curved her mouth. “Something like that,” she said, echoing his earlier words.

“And if they knew you brought 8th Wing here?”

Her smile faded. “I doubt they’d let me back in Beskidt By, let alone Kusa’s.”

Guilt stabbed him. But this wasn’t the time to delve into apologies, even for necessary evils, not when two men pushed back from a table and ambled toward the booth where he and Mara sat. A throb of loss shot through him when she pulled her hand from his.

She hadn’t lied when she said smugglers and scavengers liked to dress flamboyantly. One of the men, blond and fit, wore black nyyrikki-hide pants and a red silk shirt laced up the front. The other had his head shaved and was wearing a shiny blue jumpsuit so snug, Kell sadly knew he dressed to the right.

Both men stopped to stand right in front of the booth. Their eyes gleamed when they looked at Mara. Kell contemplated how the men might appear without their heads, and decided it would be a flattering look.

“Mara,” the blond one said, pleasure in his voice. “Good to have you back.”

“Very good,” seconded the man with the shaved head.

Why? Why was it very good? Did she sleep with these preening asses, and they want a repeat performance?

“Leyon.” She tipped her head toward the man in the enlightening jumpsuit. “Bern.”

The men narrowed their eyes as they stared insolently as Kell. It was all he could do to keep from launching himself across the table and ripping out their throats.

“Who’s this?” spat Leyon.

Kell opened his mouth to speak, ready with a story that he was Mara’s new partner, but she spoke first.

“He’s my Halu pleasure slave.”

Kell barely resisted the impulse to gape at her. He had to nod and appear perfectly calm.

“Looks a bit…tough…for a pleasure slave.” Bern gazed at Kell as if he was something that should be washed off the hull of a garbage scow. “We all saw how he took down Jorgo.”

Mara gave a careless shrug. “You can get whatever kind of pleasure slave you want nowadays.

Besides,” she added with a slow, hot smile, “I like them tough.”

Anger, confusion and arousal all battled inside Kell.

The two smugglers muttered their disappointment. “Damn, Mara.” Leyon grumbled. “We’ve been trying to get you into bed for years. You don’t have to buy something any of us would give for free.”

“Half the men in here would kill to fuck you,” Bern seconded. “And the other half are gay.”

Kell had no doubt the half to which these polished turds belonged. He wasn’t anticipating the rush of relief he felt when he understood that Mara hadn’t slept with any of them. He could not condemn her for having a sexual history, having one of his own, but knowing she never had sex with anyone in the club made his impulse to kill a little less demanding.

Again, Mara shrugged. “I like things uncomplicated.”

“And I keep her well satisfied.” Kell draped an arm around her shoulders.

Only he heard her stifled laugh. Then, turning imperious, she said, “Kell, get me a drink.”

His teeth ground together. She knew very well he couldn’t refuse or be riled by her haughty tone —not in public, at least. “Yes.” He started to slide from the booth.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes… Mistress.”

A flare of heat in her eyes, then she waved him off. “Make it a good one too. None of that cheap Hanako liquor like last time.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He stood and forcibly shouldered his way past the two smugglers. He felt a mild satisfaction when they stumbled a little, but it wasn’t quite enough as he stalked toward the bar.

As he approached the bar, people scattered out of his path. He scowled at anyone who had the misfortune of meeting his gaze. Mutterings and murmurings congealed around him as word already spread that not only did he take out that thug Jorgo, but he was Mara Skiren’s pleasure slave—the lucky bastard.

He reached the bar and ordered two Deianeiran whiskeys. While the bartender hurried to fill his order, he glanced back at the booth. The smugglers Leyon and Bern had made themselves pretty damned comfortable, sandwiching Mara between their large bodies, and the three of them laughed at some story. She was so beautiful in her laughter, everyone in the club turned to look at her, as if drawn by the gravity of a pearlescent moon.

He was no different. His gaze stayed firmly on her the entire time the drinks were being prepared.

He hadn’t felt this tightly wound, his control at the breaking point, for a long, long time. The mission was always in his mind, but he knew the real source of his tension, and she was sitting between two overly-friendly smugglers, gleaming brightly.

The price of the whiskeys amounted to nothing less than extortion, but he paid it and walked the drinks back to the booth. When he returned, he sent Leyon a look so cutting, the smuggler leapt up and made room for him next to Mara.

“Your Deianeiran whiskey, Mistress.” He set it down in front of her before sliding in close enough so their legs pressed against each other. Just for good measure, he put a proprietary hand on her bare thigh, well in view of the smugglers. Partly it was for show, but mostly it was for himself, and he felt no shame—only pleasure—in stroking her silky, warm flesh.

She started to speak, but her voice came out a husky rasp, so she took a sip of her drink. “Let’s cut past the gossip, boys. I’m here for profit, not friendship.”

“There’s a shipment of stolen plasma rifles that needs a pilot for transport,” Bern offered.

Kell could only wonder from whom the rifles had been stolen.

Mara, however, looked unimpressed. “What else?”

“Three tons of sherica looking for a buyer,” said Leyron.

That amount of sherica could power a fleet of PRAXIS patrol cutters—and Kell couldn’t do anything to keep it out of their hands if someone wanted to provide it to them.

“That’s all small shit.” Mara sighed. “I’m looking for genuine profit. Really top-of-the-line tech to move.” She glanced over at Kell, her expression sultry. “Had my eye on a lunar villa for a while.

Someplace nice and private.”

He slid his hand further up her thigh until it brushed the hem of her very short skirt. She trembled slightly beneath his fingers. He rationalized that a pleasure slave wouldn’t be very interested in black market tech, but would certainly care about keeping his mistress physically gratified.

If Mara’s accelerated breathing was any indicator, she was indeed physically gratified.

“You want a big score then you can’t do better than what Gavra’s offering,” said Leyron.

“Make it interesting,” Mara drawled.

“Listen to this.” Bern started to edge closer to Mara, but a warning glance from Kell kept the smuggler from getting too close. “Gavra got hold of a genuine 8th Wing Wraith ship. And the pilot.”

Mara winced slightly, and Kell belatedly realized he’d gripped her thigh too tight. After he loosened his hold, he gave her an apologetic caress, all the while forcing his expression to neutrality.

“She’s going to have an auction,” Bern continued. “Doesn’t care if the storm’s cleared or not.

The tech and the pilot are too hot to hold.”

“Why not just sell them both to PRAXIS?” Mara frowned. “They’d be the biggest buyer.”

“Gavra’s twitchy,” said Leyron. “Doesn’t want to deal with PRAXIS directly.”

She nodded. “That leaves the lion’s share of the profit to whomever buys the ship and the pilot.”

“Might be able to negotiate a separate deal for the pilot,” Bern leered. “Heard she’s a tight piece of ass. Ow!” He rubbed his knee and glared at Kell. “You fucking kicked me. Almost hit my goods.”

Kell’s expression didn’t change. “I get jumpy if I sit still too long.”

“Where’s the auction?” Mara asked quickly before Kell and the smuggler started trading punches.

“Gavra’s being cagy about the whole situation,” said Leyron. “She’s posting the location here at the club, tomorrow morning.”